


When There's Nowhere Else to Go

by Fiona_Fawkes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiona_Fawkes/pseuds/Fiona_Fawkes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scene post-Fall from Sherlock's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When There's Nowhere Else to Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yaycoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/gifts).



Sherlock held his breath as the footsteps in the hallway grew faint and finally disappeared around the far corner. With a relieved sigh he rested his head against the door to the closet he had hid himself in and waited a moment longer to ensure that no one else came by. Even in the early hours of dawn the house was not quiet - it's inhabitants bustling about with a reserve determination perfected by the British. The last thing he needed was for everything to be ruined by a maid refreshing the tea service.

_Mrs. Hudson’s body spread out on the sitting room floor with her limbs bent at unnatural angles– a growing pool of blood soaking into the beige carpet. Finger tips still tangled in the delicate handle of her china tea cup – a cup that he had used to serve -_

Sherlock shook himself violently to dislodge the image, making his aching head throb and edges of his vision waver. Mrs. Hudson was fine. She was going to _be_ fine. He had made sure of it.

Pulling the door open just a crack he peered down the hallway, lights were still dimmed for the overnight but the painfully white walls afforded him little camouflage. Shadows would not protect him here. Mindful not to make a sound, Sherlock eased his way into the light and quietly made his way down the vacant corridor.

Ostentatious is how he would usually describe the décor. Antique surfaces holding antique things and Sherlock wondered what it said about the occupants that they surrounded themselves with items that were never touched except to be dusted.

Walking past a gilded mirror, Sherlock was startled to see Lestrade's face staring back at him.

_Mouth open in a silent scream as the muscles went slack. The Detective Inspector had a single trail of blood dribbling down his forehead and into his unseeing eyes._

NO! Sherlock almost screamed but he stopped when the violent inhalation made his ribs cry out in pain. Screwing his eyes shut and clutching at his chest Sherlock tried to breath shallowly and take stock of his injuries. Seven, eight and nine on his right side were definitely broken and there was significant bruising developing on ribs five through ten. He found being methodical calming and he catalogued his own injuries in much the same fashion as he would a murder victim's.

Blinking to clear his vision Sherlock saw only his own pitiful reflection looking back at him. He scoffed in disgust at the matted hair and spreading purple on his face. Lestrade was fine. Well, not fine, necessarily as the last 24 hours had left his career in a violent tailspin but he'd live to see another day and that's what was really important. Everything else was just, what? Sentiment?

Sherlock straightened his broken body as best as he could and made his way slowly to the end of the hall. Mrs. Hudson’s feelings and Lestrade’s career were small sacrifices to make for their safety. Insignificant, really, when compared to what Sherlock was willing to give up - had already given up. His livelihood. His reputation. John.

Oh God, John.

_John falling to the sidewalk after a sniper’s bullet tore through neck and Sherlock unable to stop it. Reaching out with impotent fear from the roof as flesh tore and blood spilled onto the pavement and Sherlock’s only friend lay gasping for breath that wouldn’t come._

He couldn't breathe. His chest felt like it was collapsing in upon itself and although Molly had checked Sherlock over and assured him that he didn't puncture a lung in his fall it sure as hell felt like it now. Sherlock twisted his fingers into the front of the t-shirt that Molly had given him to change into and tried to visualize John as he would be and not as what almost was. John drinking tea while he read the paper. John looking down at him with awe as Sherlock knelt next to a dead body and told the story of its life and its death. John looking up at him with horror when he realized what Sherlock was about to do. Reaching out, screaming his name as he fell.

_SHERLOCK!_

Three gunman. Three bullets. "I OWE you," Moriarty had said. How could Sherlock have been so stupid as to think that he’d be able to handle Moriarty on his own. His own stupid pride was his weakness.

But not his only weakness. James Moriarty had opened his eyes to the vulnerability that made Sherlock weak in ways he couldn’t have imagined. But not anymore.

Sherlock cradled his chest with his arm and awkwardly knocked on the door left handed. “Enter,” Mycroft’s monotone voice came from within. Sherlock steeled himself for what needed to be done and walked into his brother’s office a mere seventeen hours after he stepped off the roof of Saint Bart’s.

“I'm going to need your help.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yaycoffee prompted me for “a scene from post-Fall Sherlock's perspective.” Thank you for the prompt to help me get back into writing.


End file.
